about my father,
at this age,
ninety-three,
a walker
to steady
his gait,
his eyes watered down
with disease,
his hearing
muted,
and yet
he still eats and drinks,
and lucidly
holds
a conversation about
anything
there is to talk about.
i love him
dearly,
but i can't comply to his
request for
a little blue
pill, to satisfy his
urgings,
with his latest and oldest
new found
date.
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